Page 1 of Yes, Coach (Bratton Hollow #1)

Murphy

I ’m practically moaning her fucking name as I wake up, my cock already straining against sweat-soaked sheets.

The dream won't let go. Her honey hair spilled across my pillow. Those hazel eyes, wide with trust as I stuffed myself into her ripe cherry cunt. The way she whispered "Daddy" against my throat, like she was speaking to my fucking soul.

I’m fisting myself again. I'm already leaking pre-cum from the memory of the dream.

Fuck. Thirty-seven years old and jerking off to dreams of a student? What kind of sick bastard does that make me? Yeah, she’s eighteen. I checked that as soon as she transferred in but still.

I throw myself into the shower to finish the job turning the water all the way to the coldest setting, but it does nothing to ease the lust or wash away the guilt.

Both trail me to Riverside High like hunting dogs: persistent, relentless.

I unlock my office in darkness, hands still shaking.

Coffee burns my tongue. Game film becomes a blur of meaningless shit on my laptop screen.

Nothing helps. Nothing ever fucking does anymore.

At 7:47 AM exactly, she materializes in my doorway.

I know the time because I've been watching that clock like my life depends on it, counting down minutes until her first-period study hall.

She's always early. Always prepared. Always looking at me like she can see past the coach, past the careful walls I've built, straight down to the man who's slowly coming apart.

"Coach Reynolds?" That voice. Breathless and innocent in a way that makes my jaw clench, my hands curl into fists. "Do you have a minute?"

Fuck no. Smart answer. Right answer. The answer that keeps us both safe from the wreckage I’m about to make of this.

I nod, gripping my temples between my thumb and index finger. "Come in."

She slides into my office, closes the door with a soft click that might as well be a gunshot.

Today's uniform: pleated skirt hitting mid-thigh, white button-down perfectly innocent except for how it pulls across her chest. Ankles bare except for the delicate lace trim of her socks…

Like something out of a vintage ad, sweet, coy and intentional. Standard schoolgirl, nothing special.

Except there's nothing standard about what she does to me.

"I got the scholarship letter." She holds up an envelope, her smile bright enough to power the school. "Full ride to State."

Pride and something darker wage war in my chest. She deserves this scholarship.

She deserves everything good this world can offer.

But State University sits four hours away.

Four hours of highway stretching between us, and the thought makes my hands shake like I'm some lovesick kid instead of a grown man who should know better.

My NFL days taught me about distance. About leaving everything behind when the season ends. About how easy it is to become a ghost in someone else's memory. But this feels different. This feels like losing something I never had the right to want in the first place.

"That's..." I clear my throat, try again. "That's incredible, Taryn. You earned it."

She moves closer to my desk, and I catch her scent.

It’s softness and sex wrapped in flowers and sugar, but…

Did she wear it for me? Or is that just my fucking ego ramping up a gear?

Her blond waves are tied up tight, my fingers fucking twitching to grab hold of it and hear her moan as I fuck her from behind.

Slap, slap, slap. The sloppy smack of wet flesh meeting over and over. My balls swinging back and forth so hard they slap against her drenched folds.

It gets worse. Her gingernails painted pale pink, a deep enough shade to not be all sweetness and I pictures those little fingers gripping my girth, pumping up and down as I unload all over her cute little button nose.

"I wanted to thank you. For the recommendation letter. For believing in me when nobody else did."

The gratitude in her voice nearly breaks me.

She doesn't know how she's crawled under my skin and made herself at home there.

How I lie awake calculating the hours until I'll see her again.

How I imagine being the one she turns to when everything becomes too much, the one who finally tells her she doesn't have to carry it all alone.

I've seen her job applications on my desk when she needs references.

Three part-time positions to keep her mother's medical bills from drowning them both.

Seen her fall asleep over textbooks in study hall, exhaustion carved into the slope of her shoulders.

She's been holding up the world since she was fifteen, long before she transferred to this school, and every protective instinct I possess screams at me to fix it. To fix everything for her.

But I can't. A coach offering money to a student, would raise questions I can't answer. Questions about why I give a shit about one particular girl's struggles more than the rest. Questions that would destroy us both.

She shouldn't have to be this strong. Shouldn't have to be the adult in every room she enters.

"You don't need to thank me." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "You're brilliant, Taryn. Anyone with eyes can see that."

Color floods her cheeks, and she ducks her head. The gesture transforms her and strips away the careful composure she wears like armor, revealing something softer underneath. Something that makes my chest ache with the need to protect her from a world that's demanded too much, too young.

"I should let you get back to work." But she doesn't move toward the door. Instead, she worries the letter between her fingers, teeth catching her lower lip. The vulnerability in the gesture nearly undoes me. "I just... I'm scared, Coach."

There it is. The crack in her perfect facade. The admission that she's not as fearless as she pretends to be.

"Scared of what, sweetheart?"

The endearment slips out before I can stop it, but she doesn't flinch. If anything, she seems to soften further, like she's been waiting for someone to see past the mask.

"Of leaving everything behind. Of not being... enough." Her voice breaks slightly on the last word, and something savage and protective roars to life in my chest. "What if I can't...what if I fail?"

She trails off, but I hear what she doesn't say. Without someone to catch me if I fall.

"You can do anything, Taryn." My voice comes out rougher than intended, heavy with conviction. "You're stronger than any of the pro-trained athletes that stared me down on the field."

She lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, being the strong one isn't exactly all unicorns and Birthday Cake Oreos, you know?" Her attempt at humor falls flat, I don’t miss the dark circles her eyes, the way she tries to cover it with makeup. She’s too fucking young to be so exhausted.

"I'm so tired of having to figure everything out by myself. "

The confession hits me like a physical blow. This brilliant, beautiful girl who's been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since she was a child, admitting she's tired of being everyone's rock. That she wants someone else to be strong for her.

Someone like me.

The question hangs between us, heavy and dangerous. I should give her the appropriate coach response. Something about believing in her abilities, about how proud I am of her accomplishments. Should maintain the professional distance that keeps us both safe.

Instead, I stand. Move around my desk until I'm close enough to touch her.

"You don't have to be strong with me."

The words come out without permission, but they're true. Truer than anything I've said in months. Her breath catches, and for a moment we just stare at each other across the space that suddenly feels too small and too vast all at once.

"Coach..." Her voice is barely a whisper.

"I know." I lift my hand, hover it near her cheek without quite touching. "I know I shouldn't..."

"Please." The word breaks on a sob, and then she's stepping forward, closing the distance between us. Her forehead comes to rest against my chest, and her whole body seems to deflate with relief. Like she's been holding her breath for years and can finally exhale.

My arms come around her automatically, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair as I lock my jaw, praying to the ceiling for control. She fits against me perfectly, like she was made for this moment. For my protection.

"It's okay," I murmur against the top of her head, breathing in her sweetness. Her scent is already branded into my soul, but this time, I swear to Christ I get a hit of that ball-busting pussy she's carrying around like a loaded weapon. "You're okay, I got you."

She shudders against me, and I feel the exact moment she lets go. Stops being the responsible one, the caretaker, the girl who has all the answers. In my arms, she's just Taryn. Young and scared and needing someone to tell her everything will be alright.

"I don't want to leave," she whispers against my chest.

Then don't. The thought is immediate, fierce, and completely inappropriate. But holding her like this, feeling her melt into me like she's found her safe harbor, I can't bring myself to care about appropriate.

After what feels like hours but is probably only seconds, she pulls back slightly. Looks up at me with those hazel eyes that see too much, trust too easily.

"Thank you," she says softly. "For letting me vent. I'm sorry, but you're just... so solid. I sort of cracked."

"Hey." My voice comes out gruff. "None of that shit. You think I can't handle a little honesty?"

She nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It's the first real smile I've seen from her in weeks, and it hits me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.

"I should go to class." But she doesn't move away from me. Doesn't step out of the circle of my arms.

We stand there for another heartbeat, maybe two. Then reality crashes back in—the sound of students in the hallway, a teacher's voice calling down the corridor. She steps back reluctantly, like she's fighting gravity itself.

"See you later, Coach." Her voice is soft, almost shy.

She leaves without another word, but the damage is done. The air in my office still smells like citrus and possibility... and pussy. Shit, I'm harder than I've been in years.

I lock the door with shaking hands, twist the blinds shut. This is pathetic. Desperate. But I can't walk around school like this, can't coach practice with her scent still clinging to my clothes and my cock straining against my khakis.

My hand finds my length through the fabric, and I'm already so close it's embarrassing. Three rough strokes and I'm coming hard, jaw clenched to keep from groaning her name. The release is angry, brutal, and nowhere near enough.

I clean up with tissues from my desk drawer, disgusted with myself. What the fuck kind of man have I become? Getting off to the scent of an eighteen-year-old in the place where I'm supposed to be teaching these kids discipline and respect.

Because of her.

I find the note slipped under my office door after practice, folded once with my name written in her careful script.

Coach Reynolds - Thank you again for everything. I hope you sleep well tonight. - T

I stare at the paper until the words blur. Sleep well. Like she knows exactly what she does to my nights. Like she's doing this on purpose, this careful dance around what we both feel but can't say.

The paper smells faintly of her perfume making my mouth water and my dick spurts in my pants.

I fold it carefully, slip it into my wallet.

Tonight, when I'm stroking myself raw thinking about her, I'll have something that's actually been in her hands.

For a split second, I consider wrapping the paper around my cock, but I'd shred it into a thousand pieces and I'm keeping this shit forever.

Besides, papercuts on your dick? Hard pass.

No, I'll sit there with my head back, paper pressed over my face, imagining it's her sweet pussy instead of some note, but it's the closest damn thing I have to her.

For now.

I'm so fucking screwed.